UC-NRLF 


1 


Lavender 


EDWARD 

DEWITT 

TAYLO. 


Olde  Love  and  Lavender 

Other  Verfes 


Olde  Love  and  Lavender 


Other  Verses 


By  Roy  L.  McCardell 


New  York 

Godfrey  A.  S.  Wieners 

1900 


Copyright,  1900,  by  Godfrey  A.  S.  Wieners 
All  rights  reserved 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


fo 

H.  N.  Marvin 


Contents 
/.  Suppofedly  Sentimental 

Olde  Love  and  Lavender 

June  Songs 

The  Mermaid's  Garden 

In  Darkest  Eden  4 

The  Old  Farm  at  the  Mill  5 

The  Organ  Man 

The  Captain's  Daughter 

Song  to  the  Rose  IO 

The  Naughty  Echo  I J 

The  Jolly  Drover  *  3 

At  Ellis  Island  J5 

Down  Bedford  Street  l6 

The  Proud  Rose  l8 

The  Old  Spite  Lane  2O 

The  Little  Old  Store  2I 

Summer-time 

How  it  Developed  23 

II.  About  Girls  Moftly. 

When  Phyllis  Drives  27 

How  it  Happened  z8 

The  Sailor  Girl  29 

While  I  Toil  in  the  Torrid  Town  3° 

The  Legend  of  the  Katydid  32 

"  Sally  in  our  Alley  "  34 

A  Plaint  35 

Love's  Logic  3  6 

Her  Vacation  37 
[  vii  ] 


The  High  Art  Tea  38 

All  Changed  Save  She  39 

Mary  Jane  !  40 

Her  Pifture  42 

The  Passing  of  Tennis  43 

To  an  American  Beauty  44 

The  Young  Widow  45 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer  46 

The  Substitute  Caddk  47 

To  a  Fay  re  Ladye  48 

The  Cruel  Toinette  49 

The  Averted  Sacrifice  50 

///.  A  Bunch  of  Bowery  Ballads 

"Mame"  53 

The  Lilac  Ball,  Walhalla  Hall  55 

The  Belle  of  the  Beanery  56 

Before  the  Ball  57 

Two  Clowns  58 

The  Passing  of  the  Wild  West  60 

Ground  Hog  Day  62 

Ballade  of  the  Goats  63 


Aunt  Hetty  at  the  County  Fair  67 

The  Time  of  the  Ramadan  69 

Aunt  Ann"s  Plum  Pudding  70 

The  Kid  71 

Anent  the  Fourteenth  of  February  72 

Song  of  the  Old  Sky  Blue  74 

The  Place  called  "  Easy  Street"  76 

"Settled  Down"  78 

C  ™  ] 


His  Heroes  80 

A  Marsh  Symphony  82 

Ballade  of  Old  Songs  8  3 

When  Mary  Climbed  the  Tree  84 

The  Guileless  Chinaman  86 

Ye  Foolish  Old  Bard  and  ye  Wise  Young  Troubadour  87 

Ye  Artifice  of  Dame  Allyce  90 

NOTE.  "Olde  Love  and  Lavender"  "The  Passing  of  Tennis"  "Mary 
Jane"  "  The  Old  Spite  Lane"  "  Down  Bedford  Street"  "  The  Naughty 
Echo"  "  Ye  Artifice  of  Dame  Allyce"  "  Mame"  "  The  Captains  Daughter^ 
"  The  Lilac  Ball,  Valhalla  Hall"  «  Song  of  the  Old  Sky  Blue"  "  A  Marsh 
Symphony"  "  Ye  foolish  Old  Bard  and  ye  Wise  Young  Troubadour"  and 
most  of  the  shorter  verses  in  this  volume  are  reprinted  by  permission  of 
Puck.  "The  Belle  of  the  Beanery"  "June  Songs"  "The  Passing  of  the 
Wild  West"  and  afevj  others  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  Truth. 


[ix  ] 


Suppofedly 

Sentimental 


/.  Suppofedly  Sentimental 


Olde  Love  and  Lavender 

OLD  love  is  like  old  lavender  that  scents  this  oaken  press 
And  hides  its  fragrance  in  the  folds  of  lace  and  silken  dress, 
The  dress  she  wore  with  regal  air  at  many  a  stately  ball, 
When  dandies  of  the  time  declared  she  held  the  hearts  of  all. 
She  held  my  heart,  she  held  it  long  $  ah,  me !  she  holds  it  yet j 
Though  that  was  in  the  long  ago  —  and  sometimes  I  forget. 
Old  Love  is  like  old  lavender,  forgotten  clear,  complete, 
Till  we  disturb  some  mem'ry  fond  and  raise  its  fragrance  sweet. 

Old  Love  is  like  old  lavender,  it  keeps  its  sweetness  ever, 

'Though  days  glide  into  weeks  and  years,  though  hearts  that  love  must  sever. 

And  fate  forbade.  We  parted,  too  j  our  fond  farewells  were  spoken  ; 

And  I  forget,  I  said  ?  Ah,  no !  Why,  I  have  every  token 

That,  san&ified  by  love,  she  gave — with  each  one  a  caress. 

I  laid  them  all  in  lavender,  as  is  this  silken  dress ; 

The  dress  I  loved  to  see  her  wear — oh,  quaint,  old  rich  brocade ! 
No  dress  like  you  was  ever  worn,  and  by  so  sweet  a  maid  ! 
"  You  '11  wear  it  on  our  wedding  day  ? "  I  often  used  exclaim  ; 
For  such  a  fate  't  was  put  apart  —  and  then  our  parting  came. 
Old  Love  is  like  old  lavender,  fragrant  still  the  while  j — 
Yes,  Love  is  old,  like  lavender,  old-fashioned,  out  of  style ! 


June  Songs 


WHY  do  I  always  sing  of  June  ? 
'T  is  the  month  when  I  was  born ; 
It  hath  days  of  sun  and  nights  of  moon, 
And  merry  inse&s  all  in  tune, 
Fiddling  in  the  corn. 

The  corn  is  young,  the  corn  is  green, 

Its  height  is  but  a  span  j 
Last  year  't  was  just  as  high,  I  ween, 
But  they  play  as  if  there  ne'er  had  been 

Such  corn  since  time  began. 

For  them  in  June  the  world  is  new, 

For  me  ""t  is  just  the  same  ; 
"  As  now  so  fair  no  flowers  e'er  grew, 
The  grass  waves  green  a  deeper  hue," 

They  sing  with  one  acclaim. 

In  June  the  birds  all  sing  by  day, 

The  insefts  sing  by  night ; 
They  chirrup  high  a  roundelay, 
And  sing  and  fiddle  ever  gay 

And  with  new-found  delight. 

"  No  grass  like  this !  Nor  e'er  such  corn ! 

No  nights  like  these  !  "  they  swear. 
So  merry  insefts  sing  till  morn, 
Praising  the  month  when  I  was  born, 

June  ever  new  and  fair ! 


The  Mermaid's  Garden 

THE  mermaid's  garden  is  always  cool, 
There  shadows  always  keep  ; 
For  the  mermaid's  garden  is  a  pool, 
On  which  pond-lilies  sleep. 

There  is  never  the  song  of  a  tuneful  throat 

And  never  the  buzz  of  a  bee  ; 
Instead,  in  the  mermaid's  garden  float 

The  fish  all  silently. 

And  if  the  mermaid  would  see  the  bloom 

Of  the  lilies  she  plants  to  grow, 
She  must  grasp  the  stalks  in  the  watery  gloom 

And  pull  down  the  flower  below. 

Watch  some  day  from  the  lily-pond  bank } 

A  lily  will  disappear  — 
Be  sure  a  mermaid  is  where  it  sank, 

A  mermaid's  garden 's  here ! 


C  3  ] 


In  Darkest  Eden 

OOD-NIGHT,"  she  said,  and  softly  closed  the  door 

Behind  us  to  the  drawing-room.  The  hall  was  dark, 
The  lamp  upon  the  balustrade  burned  low.  Upon  the  floor 
Deep  shadows  fell  j  yet  in  the  dimness  I  could  mark 
The  smile  upon  her  face. 

We  were  alone,  I  fear  we  liked  our  loneliness ; 

And  it  was  dark  —  I  know  we  liked  that,  too. 
"  Good-night "  she  said  again,  but  I  could  guess 

She  did  not  really  mean  it  as  adieu, 
And  so  I  kept  my  place. 

For,  in  this  whole  wide  world,  I  loved  her  best  of  all, 
Her  little  hand  in  mine  a  trembling  prisoner  lay — 

And  did  I  kiss  her  then  ?  Ah,  like  the  hall, 
We  '11  keep  it  dark.  How  would  you  say 
"  Good-night "  in  such  a  case  ? 


[4] 


The  Old  Farm  at  the  Mill 

A  Ballad  of  the  Field 

THE  moist  brown  soil  in  furrows  lay, 
Where  the  field  sloped  up  the  hill ; 
Below,  the  meadows  stretched  away 
To  the  farm-house  at  the  mill. 

A  city  lad,  whose  heart  is  glad, 

A  lassie  country  born  ; 
How  the  old  hills  ring  to  the  song  they  sing ! 

They  sing  and  drop  the  corn  : 

'Three  in  a  hill,  three  in  a  hill; 

Should  the  cut-worm  and  the  crow 
Each  claim  his  share,  a  kernel  there, 

Yet  one  is  left  to  grow. 

0  Polly,  Polly !  't  was  thus  we  sang  that  day, 
That  the  echoes  soft  repeated  oft 

So  far,  so  far  away  ! 

The  years  have  passed.  —  Ah,  time  goes  fast ! 

Yet  my  heart  is  constant  still  j 
And  thoughts  go  forth  to  the  distant  North, 

To  the  farm-house  at  the  mill. 

1  see  the  old  field  slope  away, 

And  feel  the  breeze  of  morn  ; 
The  old  refrain  comes  back  again, 
We  sing  and  drop  the  corn  : 
[  5  ] 


Constant  still,  constant  still, 

To  the  love  of  long  ago. 
Thd"  grief  and  care  may  claim  their  share, 

Yet  love  is  left,  I  know. 

O  Polly,  Polly !  tho'  youth  may  pass  away, 

And  latter  years  bring  Trouble's  tears, 

YET  LOVE  WILL  LAST  FOR  AY! 


The  Organ  Man 

HE  often  comes  when  I  'm  lone  and  sad  — 
The  organ  man,  with  his  tunes  so  old  j 
And  his  presence  always  makes  me  glad, 
Although  other  surly  folk  may  scold. 

I  'm  very  fond  of  "  popular  airs," 

But  best  I  like  when  the  children  troop 

Out  from  alleys  and  tenement  stairs, 
And  gather  round  him,  a  noisy  group. 

He  makes  them  sing  to  the  tunes  he  plays, 
And  these  old,  old  children  dance  with  glee  j 

Why,  I  know  they'd  forget  their  childish  ways 
Were  it  not  for  the  organ  man  and  me  ! 

For  a  penny  tossed  brings  a  bow  profound, 
And  a  sunny  smile  to  his  sallow  face  ; 

Then  he  turns  the  handle  faster  round, 

While  the  music  quivers  through  the  place. 

For  here  down  town,  where  the  faftories 
Wall  in  the  tenements  dark  and  grim, 

And  shut  out  the  light,  the  air,  the  breeze, 
There  would  be  no  children  but  for  him. 

So  he  comes  to  see  me  every  day, 

Starting  his  tunes  at  my  welcoming  glance  j 
And  I  'm  but  too  glad  to  be  able  to  pay 

The  little  it  costs,  while  the  children  dance ! 


C  7  ] 


H 


The  Captain's  Daughter 

A  Ballad  of  the  Canal 

OW  slow  the  Summer  days  go  by,  at  old  Lock  Number  One, — 
The  slow  canal,  the  woods  and  sky,  in  the  bright  glare  of  the  sun  ! 
Then,  oh  !  what  use  to  live,  to  live, 

If  this  through  life  's  my  lot  — 
A  human  clod,  through  life  to  plod, 
And  then  to  die  forgot  ? 

A  lazy  lounge  in  the  lock-house  shade,  for  few  boats  pass  to-day  5 
Then  the  eyes  half  close  in  a  dreamy  doze,  and  the  fancies  idly  stray 
To  her,  the  one  I  love,  I  love ; 

And  the  soft  June  breezes  blow, 
While  the  bitter  strife  with  work-day  life 
I  seem  no  more  to  know. 

So  I  dreamily  lie  asleep-awake,  cool  though  the  heat  motes  quiver, 
Happy,  though  the  sound  the  riffles  make  seem  a  moan  from  the  distant  river. 
Then,  oh  !  if  life  were  all  Summer-time, 

And  Summer-time  all  June, 

Would  the  wandering  breeze,  through  the  old  oak  trees, 
Still  hum  with  the  same  sweet  tune  ? 

Hark  !  the  sound  of  bells,  so  low,  so  sweet,  though  their  clear  sound  sadly 

tells 

That  weary  feet,  through  dust  and  heat,  plod  on  to  the  sound  of  the  bells. 
And,  oh  !  I  know  their  sound,  their  sound  j 

And  mule  bells  though  they  be, 
Sweetly  they  ring,  for  I  know  they  bring 
The  one  I  love  to  me. 

[8] 


Now,  there  is  the  boat  itself  in  sight  —  I  knew  it  was  the  Fairy  — 

And  my  heart  beats  light,  all  life  seems  bright,  for  there  on  the  deck  is 

Mary; 
For  her  sweet  voice  I  '11  hear,  I  '11  hear, 

And  her  sweet  face  I  '11  see  ; 
And  eyes  so  bright  with  a  soft  love-light 
Will  lovingly  gaze  on  me, 
Will  lovingly  gaze  on  me. 


Song  to  the  Rose 

IN  summer  a  song  to  the  rose, 
Queen  of  the  Flowers  all ; 
Fragrant  she  blooms  and  blows, 
This  is  her  festival. 

Fit  for  the  bride  in  her  bower, 

And  meet  for  my  true  love's  hair  j 

A  song  to  the  regent  flower, 
Where  is  there  one  so  fair  ? 

Wooed  by  the  wind  at  morn, 

Gilt  by  the  sun  at  noon  j 
Jewelled  with  dew  when  born, 

Silvered  at  night  by  the  moon. 

Here  with  a  lover's  vow, 

Sweet  with  your  fragrant  musk  ; 
You  shall  deck  my  lady's  brow 

When  our  tryst  is  kept  in  the  dusk. 

Passionate  love  that  is  true, 
Symbol  you  are  and  the  sign ; 

Red  rose  it  is  you,  it  is  you, 

That  I  send  as  a  message  of  mine. 

Go,  thou  queen liest  flower, 
To  the  fairest  of  all  the  fair, 

Thou  art  fit  for  the  bride  in  her  bower 
And  meet  for  my  true  love's  hair ! 


[  10  ] 


The  Naughty  Echo 

A  Ballad  of  the  Brook 

DOWN  by  the  brook  where  the  sweet  mint  grew, 
By  the  meadow's  edge  of  clover  j 
Deep  in  the  shade  that  the  beeches  threw 

From  their  branches  bending  over, 
A  broad  path  wandered  toward  the  mill, 

Ever  by  the  brook-side  winding  ; 
And  an  Echo  dwelt  across  by  the  hill, 

Always  an  answer  rinding. 
Answering  the  murmur  of  the  brook  alway, 

Answering  the  bee  and  cricket, 
Repeating  the  notes  that  rang  out  gay, 

As  the  birds  sang  in  the  thicket. 

¥ 

Adown  the  path  one  Summer  day 

Came  blue-eyed  Bessie,  singing  j 
Singing  an  old,  old  love  song  gay 

That  set  the  wildwood  ringing  : 

My  lover's  heart  is  w/iolly  mine, 

Although  he  is  a  rover  j 
/  '//  love  him  ever,  and  believe  them  never 

Who  say  "  He  V  false,  your  lover." 


.. 

Young  Robin  stood  in  the  beech  tree's  shade, 
'Mid  the  sweet  mint  and  the  clover  ; 

And  he  heard  the  song  of  the  blithesome  maid, 
And  the  Echo's  answer  over. 


His  voice  took  up  the  olden  air, 

With  its  quaint  old  time  and  tune  5 

And  he  sung  it  as  oft  he  M  sung  it  there, 
In  the  rays  of  the  harvest  moon  : 

Tour  lover's  heart  is  wholly  yours. 

Although  he  be  a  rover  j 
He  V/  love  you  ever,  and  naught  can  sever 

Our  hearts ,  for  he^s  true, your  lover! 

And  the  Echo  listened  to  each  word, 

That  came  to  the  hillside  over  ; 
And  the  listening  lovers  plainly  heard 

His  answer  :  He"1*  true, your  lover! 

And  long  they  sat  in  the  beechen  shade, 
Till  the  dew  'neath  the  night  star  glistened 

But  what  they  said  was  ne'er  betrayed, 
For  the  Echo,  silent,  listened. 


The  Jolly  Drover 

A  Ballad  of  1850 

IN  olden  times  before  the  war, 
There  came  a  Jolly  Drover 
Through  the  little,  sleepy  country  town, 
His  cattle  fording  over. 

For  the  river  runs  on  the  southern  side 

Of  the  little  town  of  Dover, 
And  the  children  flock  to  watch  the  sight 

When  there  *s  cattle  fording  over. 

The  Black  Horse  Tavern,  gabled,  gray, 

Is  kept  by  old  Tom  Stover, 
And  the  Tavern  yard  is  big  enough 

For  the  herd  of  the  Jolly  Drover. 

Oh,  the  Bound-Out-Girl  was  seventeen, 

Sweet,  rosy,  dimpled  Nancy  ! 
She  served  the  table  modestly, 

She  took  the  Drover's  fancy. 

He  said,  "  I  Ve  travelled  far  and  wide 
This  whole  great  country  over, 

But  none  like  you  I  yet  have  seen  — 
You  suit  the  Jolly  Drover. 

"  Oh,  the  Drover  he  has  goodly  lands 
With  feeding  flocks  of  cattle, 

And  money,  too,  besides  the  coins 
That  in  his  pockets  rattle. 


"Now,  will  you  go  with  me,  my  dear  ? 

Just  think  the  matter  over  ; 
Join  your  heart  and  hand  in  mine 

And  go  with  the  Jolly  Drover. 

"I  '11  build  a  home  in  the  far  Southwest, 
Where  my  herds  eat  prairie  clover  j 

You  shall  have  all  your  heart  may  wish 
And  the  love  of  the  Jolly  Drover." 

The  Bound-Out-Girl  gazed  shyly  down, 

She  thought  the  matter  over ; 
She  cared  not  a  whit  for  all  his  gold, 

But  she  loved  the  Jolly  Drover. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  '11  go  !  "  said  the  Bound-Out-Girl  j 
"  I  '11  believe  you,  though  a  rover. 

For  what  is  love,  that  hath  not  trust  ? " 
"  Hurrah  !  "  cried  the  Jolly  Drover. 

So  the  Drover  wed  the  Tavern  girl  j 

The  wedding  soon  was  over. 
When  morning  dawned  away  she  rode 

By  the  side  of  the  Jolly  Drover. 

And  gone  forever  is  the  Bound-Out-Girl, 

And  gone  is  the  Jolly  Drover  j 
But  still  they  Ve  maids  who  '11  love  and  trust, 

In  other  towns  than  Dover. 


[  14] 


At  Ellis  Island 

SHE 'S  left  ould  Ireland,  ashtore, 
She's  sailed  across  the  sea  — 
This  day  I  '11  see  her  step  ashore, 

Oh,  happy  day  for  me  ! 
Small  wonder,  then,  this  Irish  boy 
Is  thrimbling  through  his  skin, 
An'  in  a  fever  heat  wid  joy 
To  see  his  ship  come  in. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  it 's  far  apart 
For  two  long  years  we  Ve  been, 

But  the  time  is  past,  and  now  at  last 
You  Ve  come  to  me,  Eileen. 

Long  have  I  toiled  and  striven 

To  see  this  blessed  day, 
When  she  to  me  'd  be  given. 

Cruel  was  the  long  delay  ; 
I  made  a  home  and  sent  for  her, — 

My  prayers  'tween  her  and  harm  — 
And,  see !  she  stands  to  greet  me,  sir, 

Her  bundle  on  her  arm. 

Life  of  my  life,  my  darling  wife, 
Long  has  the  parting  been  ; 

But  'cross  the  sea  you  Ve  come  to  me, 
Mavourneen,  my  Eileen. 


C'5] 


Down  Bedford  Street 

DOWN  Bedford  Street,  so  quiet,  staid, 
Time  seems  to  hardly  lay  his  hand  j 
The  maple  trees  'neath  which  I  played 

Still  flourish  as  they  sturdy  stand. 
'T  is  true,  at  intervals  between 

The  quaint,  old  dormer-windowed  bricks, 
Some  ugly,  modern  house  is  seen 

Whose  builder  's  played  fantastic  tricks 
With  iron  and  stone ;  but  these  are  few. 

The  most  is  old,  the  old  I  love ; 
Old  homes,  old  doorways  leading  through, 

Dim  lit  with  fan-lights  high  above. 

Here,  in  the  olden  Summer-times, 

Upon  the  pavements  in  the  ring, 
We  children  chanted  out  our  rhymes — 

I  wonder  now  if  children  sing 
"King  William  was  King  James's  Son," 

Or,  "London  Bridge  is  Breaking  down"  ? 
Years  gone  such  songs  when  day  was  done 

Made  echoes  in  this  part  of  town. 
But  here  at  noon  the  place  is  still, 

Mayhap  a  pigeon  circles  round, 
Or  some  canary's  silvery  trill 

Breaks  on  the  silence  with  its  sound. 

Down  Bedford  Street  the  years  roll  on, 
But  still  its  dwellers  seem  to  hold 

Tenacious  to  a  time  that 's  gone, 
And  antique  beauties  of  the  old. 
[  16  ] 


Yet  I,  as  one  that  seeks  to  find 

A  face  he  knew  in  other  years, 
Peer  at  each  closed  Venetian  blind, 

And  grieve  that  none  I  know  appears. 
Old,  old  !  The  very  breath  of  June 

Is  lavender,  so  faint  and  sweet, 
Abroad  upon  the  languid  noon, 

Down  Bedford  Street,  down  Bedford  Street. 


The  Proud  Rose 

IT  was  morning  and  the  Rose  awoke. 
The  dew  begirt  her  in  shimmering  jewels. 
Her  hair  was  gold,  her  cheeks  were  pink. 
Her  gown  was  green,  beautiful  to  behold. 
And  she  was  conscious  of  her  youth  and  loveliness. 
But  she  thought  her  Pride  was  Modesty. 
A  Traveller  passed. 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  "  Oh,  fair  young  Rose, 
I  will  wear  you  on  my  heart ! " 
But  the  Rose  shrank  from  him. 
"  Am  I  to  be  had  for  the  asking  ? "  she  said, 
"The  Wind  wooes  me  tenderly,  the  Bee  hums 
To  me,  the  sky  is  blue  for  me 
And  the  birds  sing  for  me. 
Seek  elsewhere  for  Rosebuds,  Sir  Traveller ! " 
And  the  Traveller  went  his  way. 

The  long  summer  day  went  by. 

The  Rose  sighed  when  the  shadows  came. 

The  Wind  had  tired  of  her  and  had  tossed  her  hair, 

And  went  whistling  o'er  the  hill. 

The  sky  was  gray,  the  Birds  and  Bees  were  gone. 

She  still  wore  the  jewels  of  dew, 

But  in  the  dull  tones  of  eventide  they  gleamed  no  more. 

Again  the  Traveller  passed. 

She  thought  her  Modesty  was  Pride 

And  she  called  to  him  : 

"  You  forget  you  were  to  wear  me  on  your  Heart ! " 

But  the  Traveller  shook  his  head. 

"Not  now,"  he  said,  "it  is  too  late." 


"To-morrow  ?" 

"  To-morrow  I  go  where  other  fair  buds  bloom, 

Good-night,  Proud  Rose  !  " 

And  the  Traveller  went  his  way. 


The  Old  Spite  Lane 

THE  Spite  Lane  runs  along  the  line  'twixt  Slocum's  farm  and  ours, 
A  narrow  space  between  each  fence  where  nothing  grows  but  flowers. 
The  relic  of  a  silly  feud  that  smouldered  many  years, 
That  caused  harsh  words  between  the  men  and  roused  our  mothers1  fears  j 
A  country  quarrel  long  ago,  a  quarrel  firm  and  set, 
Here  where  lives  are  narrow  and  people  wont  forget. 
We  children  keep  the  quarrel  not  although  its  mark  is  plain, 
For  there  between  our  meadows  green  still  runs  the  old  Spite  Lane. 

Sometimes  when  father  sits  about  at  peace  with  all  the  world, 

The  country  paper  on  his  knee,  the  smoke  wreaths  'bout  him  curled, 

I  drop  a  hint  on  foolish  spites  that  run  to  cruel  ends, 

And  how  much  nicer  it  would  be  if  neighbors  all  were  friends. 

He  '11  snap  out  "  No  !  I  '11  fight  it  out !  Them  Slocums  can't  beat  me ! " 

But  he  ain't  as  hearty  in  it  now  as  what  he  used  to  be  j 

When  'cross  the  line  he  'd  shake  his  fist  and  fairly  almost  swear, 

While  ol'  man  Slocum  with  his  men  would  holler  "Jest  you  dare  !  " 

But  then  those  times  I  think  are  gone ;  they  '11  never  come  again  — 

And  some  bright  day  we  '11  tear  away  the  silly  old  Spite  Lane. 

For  often  in  the  eventide  when  at  the  pasture  bars 

The  cow-bells  tinkle  in  the  dusk  beneath  the  summer  stars, 

Sweet  Laura  Slocum  steals  away  to  meet  me  once  again  — 

No  angry  word  can  then  be  heard  across  the  old  Spite  Lane. 

Old  feuds,  old  hates,  old  quarrels  harsh,  young  hearts  can  end  them  thus, 

The  fences  mark  a  lover's  lane  just  wide  enough  for  us. 

The  Spite  Lane  runs  along  the  line  'twixt  Slocum's  farm  and  ours  j 

It  marks  a  path  of  sullen  wrath — but  naught  grows  there  save  flowers ! 


The  Little  Old  Store 

OH,  the  little  old  store  with  the  bell  on  the  door, 
That  rang,  as  you  went  out  or  in, 
With  a  ting-a-ling-ling,  as  it  swung  on  the  spring 

And  deafened  your  ears  with  a  din ! 
Oh,  the  little  old  store  gave  measure  and  more, 

And  everything  smelled  sweet  of  spice  j 
Though  't  was  dark,  to  say  true,  and  nothing  was  new, 
Yet  everything  sold  there  was  nice. 

For  a  quaint  little  maid,  in  muslin  arrayed, 

Would  answer  each  ring  from  the  door, 
And  smiles  sweet  and  simple  played  tag  with  the  dimple 

In  the  cheeks  of  the  maid  of  the  store. 
I  used  often  to  stop  in  the  little  old  shop, 

And  sometimes  for  nothing  at  all, 
But  to  just  shake  the  spring  and  to  hear  the  bell  ring 

For  Nelly  to  answer  its  call. 

Ah !  those  times  are  all  o'er,  the  little  old  store 

Has  vanished  with  old-fashioned  ways  j 
Till  sometimes  it  seems  as  but  one  of  the  dreams, 

That  we  have  of  our  boyhood  days. 
Though  a  faint,  vague  regret  comes  over  me  yet 

As  I  think  of  those  days  now  no  more, 
In  my  heart  I  would  fain  be  a  glad  lad  again 

And  with  Nell  in  the  little  old  store. 


Summer-time 

THEN,  oh,  to  lie  through  drowsy  noons, 
On  greenswards  daisy  garnished  ; 
To  dream  down  time  through  endless  Junes, 
By  ne'er  a  sorrow  tarnished. 

By  brinks  of  brooks  where  sweet  mint  grows, 

And  meadows  gay  with  clover  j 
Where  the  silver  beech  its  shadow  throws 

The  mirrored  surface  over. 

With  ever  the  cooling  bower  of  shade, 
Where  come  the  breezes  straying, 

Bringing  the  scent  from  glen  and  glade 
Of  blossoms  and  the  haying. 

Far  off  the  furrowed  fields  of  brown 

That  tell  of  rural  toiling, 
And  farther  yet  the  pent-in  town 

Where  immured  men  are  moiling. 

Not  here  a  breath  of  carking  care 

To  spoil  the  golden  weather, 
But  only  fancies  light  and  fair 

As  clouds  of  fleecy  feather. 

Where  woodland  songsters  pipe  their  tunes, 

Where  summer  airs  caress, 
We  dream  down  time  through  endless  Junes 

And  Love-in-idleness. 


How  it  Developed 

1  PROPOSED  when  Dolly  posed 
To  be  photographed ; 
Earnestly  my  love  disclosed, 
Dolly  only  laughed. 

Dolly  mocked  my  love  and  art 

With  coquetry  malicious, 
Spoiled  my  plates  and  spumed  my  heart 

With  baffling  smiles  capricious. 

Still  attempting,  I  essayed, 

Still  she  posed,  unheeding, 
"Give  an  answer,  cruel  maid, 

To  my  earnest  pleading." 

Then  she  did  —  and  while  I  live, 

To  make  me  melancholy, 
I  cherish  one  sharp  negative 

That  I  got  of  Dolly. 


//.  About  Girls  Moftly 


When  Phyllis  Drives 

WHEN  Phyllis  in  her  dog-cart  drives 
She  sets  the  people  staring, 
For  't  is  for  swagger  style  she  strives 
That  borders  on  the  daring. 

Her  groom  behind  sits  straight,  ereft, 

And  on  the  little  fellow 
Is  London  liv'ry —  great  effeft 

Of  startling  black  and  yellow  ! 

For  Phyllis  drives  where  fashion  goes, 

No  other  place  would  suit  her  j 
And  all  the  howling  swells  she  knows 

Bow  low  down  and  salute  her. 

And  vow  that  never  yet,, between 

The  Hudson  and  the  Niger, 
Was  there  so  fine  an  instance  seen 

Of  Lady  or  the  Tiger. 


How  it  Happened 

HE  tempted  me.  What  could  I  do  ? 
We  talked  of  this  and  that  j 
But  I  could  see  his  purpose  through 
As  he  held  out  his  hat. 

Not  e'en  a  chaperon  was  by, 

Or  gossip  idling  round  j 
No  living  soul  save  he  and  I 

Was  there  in  sight  or  sound. 

It  was  not  in  the  good-night  said 
What  challenged  me  to  that, 

But  't  was  his  daring  glance  I  read 

And  he  held  out  his  hat. 

So,  with  the  skill  he  wondered  at, 

I  deftly  made  the  kick, 
And  then  —  he  just  put  on  his  hat, 

And  said,  "  Bess,  you  >e  a  brick  !  " 


The  Sailor  Girl 

AJ,  since  this  latter  craze  has  come 
Of  yachting  on  the  briny  deep, 
My  saddened  heart  is  pained  and  numb 
And  I  can  neither  rest  nor  sleep. 

For  her  I  love,  queen  of  my  soul ! 

Has  caught  the  fever  at  its  height  j 
She  loves  the  waves  that  toss  and  roll  $ 

And  yachting  is  her  heart's  delight. 

And  I,  alas,  and  woe  is  me ! 

If  left  to  take  my  choice  and  pick, 
Would  never  choose  the  tossing  sea, 

The  slightest  roll  will  make  me  sick. 

But  she,  her  eyes  will  brighten  up 

When  e'er  you  speak  of  sails  or  breeze  j 

She  knows  the  hist'ry  of  the  cup 

That  we  have  held  for  years  with  ease. 

I  turn  the  talk,  't  is  all  in  vain, 
I  speak  of  golf,  football  or  tennis, 

She  veers  it  round  to  yachts  again  — 
And  much  I  fear  my  name  is  Dennis. 


While  I  Toil  in  the  Torrid  Town 

WHILE  I  toil  in  this  torrid  town, 
You,  whom  I  love,  are  far  away, 
And  on  your  pretty  face  a  frown 

Because  still  from  your  side  I  stay. 
As  if  't  were  choice  that  keeps  me  here 

So  far  from  you  I  love  the  best ! 
'Tis  duty,  and  it  costs  me  dear  — 

To  be  with  you  !  Ah,  that  were  blest ! 
But  we  must  keep  such  fond  hopes  down 

While  I  toil  in  this  torrid  town. 

While  I  toil  in  this  torrid  town, 

You  pass  the  day  in  shady  nooks  j 
And  vainly  strive  your  thoughts  to  drown 

In  shallow  depths  of  Summer  books. 
Sometimes  across  the  fields  you  stray 

Where  sweet  wild  flowers  at  you  smile, 
Their  beauty  tempting  you  to  stay  .  .  . 

Sometimes  you  pause  upon  the  stile  — 
No  one  is  there  to  help  you  down, 

While  I  toil  in  this  torrid  town. 

While  I  toil  in  this  torrid  town 

The  Summer  long,  and  you  are  free 

To  stray  till  Autumn's  fields  are  brown 
Through  country  lanes,  and  without  me$ 

Take  care  !  'Mid  flowers  that  you  pull 
There  lurks  the  poison  oak  and  such  j 

[  30  ] 


Forget  not  that  the  farmer's  bull 
Objefts  to  red  umbrellas  much  ; 

And  other  men  !  Oh,  at  them  frown 
While  I  toil  in  this  torrid  town ! 


The  Legend  of  the  Katydid 

As  told  by  a  Summer  Girl 

THERE  was  a  girl  named  Katy  once  ft  is  thus  the  story  goes), 
A  Summer  Girl  so  passing  fair  she  captured  all  the  beaux. 
The  other  girls,  in  jealous  rage,  consulted  an  old  witch, 
And  crossed  her  palm  with  silver  coins  enough  to  make  her  rich. 
"Oh  !  cast  some  spell  on  Katy  —  by  that  we  mean  a  charm  — 
To  end  her  taking  all  our  beaux,  and  yet  do  her  no  harm." 

For  Katy  takes  our  sweethearts,  she  V  mean  as  she  can  be, 

She  will  not  spare  a  single  one  for  either  you  or  me. 

She  V  got  them  all  beneath  her  thumb — they  ''lido  just  as  she  V/  bid; 

She  turned  her  nose  up  at  us,  too  $  — yes,  that  V  fwhat  Katy  did. 

"  My  children,"  said  the  old  dame  then,  "  I  '11  conjure  up  a  spell, 
That  chirping  inserts  in  the  trees  shall  on  Miss  Katy  tell. 
Her  different  beaux  will  soon  perceive  she  's  but  a  sly  coquette, 
And  you  will  get  your  sweethearts  back  and  laugh  at  Katy  yet. 
Go  back  contented  in  your  minds,  and  leave  it  all  to  me j 
Soon  she  '11  be  dreadful  talked  about  from  every  bush  and  tree." 

Then  Katy  wont  have  all  the  beaux  she  took  from  you  and  me. 
And  she  V/  be  sorry  that  she  ewas  as  mean  as  mean  could  be  j 
For  everywhere,  on  moonlight  nights,  the  little  insecJs,  hid, 
Will  chatter  to  each  other  and  tell  what  Katy  did. 

When  Katy  sought  the  old  witch  out  she  brought  her  silver,  too. 
The  old  dame  said  :  "  Alas !  my  dear,  that  charm  I  can't  undo." 
"  Then  can't  you  fix  it,"  Katy  said,  "  that  they  can  only  call 
That  Katy  did !  she  did !  she  did !  on  nights  more  in  the  Fall  ? 


And  ne<ver  in  the  Summer-time ;  and  I  won't  hear  it  then  j 
For  I  '11  be  gone. in  August — and  so  will  all  the  men  ! " 

And  Katy  takes  our  sweethearts  still,  she  V  mean  as  she  can  be 
She  ^will  not  share  a  single  one  with  either  you  or  me. 
Does  Katy  flirt?  Ah  I  those  that  know  forever  are  forbid 
To  tell  a  soul  till  Summer  V  gone  that  Katy  did,  she  did! 


C  33] 


"Sally  in  our  Alley" 

A  Late  Version 

OF  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart, 
There  's  none  can  equal  Sally, 
When  in  the  game  she  takes  a  frame, 
And  bowls  down  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that  I  have  seen, 
There  "s  none  to  me  like  one  day, 

And  that 's  the  day  that  comes  between 
Each  Friday  and  each  Sunday. 

For  Saturdays  are  "ladies'  nights," 
And  then  you  hear  the  rally  j 

She  makes  ten-strikes  whene'er  she  likes, 
Our  lady-champion,  Sally. 

Oh,  some  day  when  with  courage  stout 

I  shall  propose  to  Sally, 
Oh,  pray  she  shall  not  bowl  me  out 

As  she  does  down  in  our  alley ! 


[  34] 


A  Plaint 

THE  End  of  the  Century  Maid  !  The  End  of  the  Century  Maid  ! 
She 's  tall  and  she 's  slim,  she  belongs  to  a  "  gym," 
And  she  's  learning  to  box,  I  'm  afraid. 

The  End  of  the  Century  Maid  !  The  people  of  nothing  else  prate  ; 

How  she  reads  and  she  talks,  how  she  rides  and  she  walks, 
Oft  in  bloomers,  I  'm  sorry  to  state. 

The  End  of  the  Century  Maid  !  The  gush  of  the  weird  "Woman's  Page,1 

The  twaddle  of  "teas,"  talks  on  chalk  and  on  cheese, 
Her  importance  in  art,  on  the  stage. 

The  End  of  the  Century  Maid !  She  has  put  all  the  men  in  the  shade, 

Till  sometimes,  I  fear,  we  wish  we  could  hear 
The  end  of  the  Century  Maid  ! 


[  35] 


Love's  Logic 


HE 

WHEN  we  were  boy  and  girl  we  played 
At  happy  games,  and  to  their  rhymes 
I  kissed  you  often,  dearest  maid, 

And  that 's  not  counting  other  times. 

SHE 
You  silly  boy !  That 's  long  ago, 

We  were  but  children,  and  you  '11  own 
A  precedent  established  so 

Does  not  now  hold — for  you  have  grown. 

HE 

Dear  one,  the  words  you  say  are  true  j 

That  I  have  grown  I  '11  not  deny, 
Which  evens  things  between  us  two, 

For  you  have  grown  as  well  as  I ! 

L' ENVOI 
Love  has  a  logic  all  its  own  j 

It  may  not  stand  analysis, 
But  then,  you  see,  they  were  alone  — 

And  she,  she  let  him  have  the  kiss. 


[  36] 


Her  Vacation 

THE  breeze  comes  scented  with  the  pinks 
That  blossom  in  the  garden  fair ; 
But  at  her  casement  still  she  prinks 
O'er  lawn  and  lace  and  ribbons  there. 

"  Come  out ! "  "  Come  out !  "  the  chorus  goes, 
From  trees  and  sky  and  birds  a-wing  j 

Yet  still  she  sits  and  sews  and  sews, 
Nor  hears  nor  heeds  the  song  they  sing. 

But  after  lamplight  comes  the  maid, 

In  dainty  organdies  bedight } 
In  all  her  panoply  arrayed, 

Tricked  up  by  day  to  shine  at  night. 

And  then  a  smile  upon  her  face, 
She  '11  say  with  girlish  artlessness  : 

"  It 's  so  nice  here,  you  know,  —  a  place 
Where  one  need  not  fix  up  and  dress  ! " 


[  37  ] 


The  High  Art  Tea 

THEY  sip  their  tea.  'T  is  black, 
Real  Russian  Caravan,  with  just  a  squeeze 

Of  lemon.  All  real  Russian  teas 
Are  served  up  thus,  and  do  not  lack 

A  dash  of  rum  ;  while,  as  for  cream  — 
"  They  'd  laugh  at  you  in  Russia,"  says  the  host, 

An  Artist — (his  atelier  's  a  dream, 
With  raw  silk  drapery  hung  with  much  eclat). 

He  never  paints,  't  is  true  ;  but  that 's  a  part 

That  only  stands  for  what 's  mechanical  in  Art. 
Real  Art  is  tea  that  comes  in  small  bricks  from  Herat, 

And  pretty  girls  —  to  worship  as  their  Tsar 

The  Studio-tea  Artist  with  his  Samovar ! 


All  Changed  Save  She 

A  Rondeau  of  1780 

WHEN  Mistress  Peggy  shopping  goes, 
No  bower  e'er  held  so  fair  a  rose, 
Much  less  a  sedan  chair  j 
She  smiles  and  bows  to  all  she  knows, 
And  breaks  the  hearts  of  all  the  beaux, 
Who  hold  there 's  none  so  fair. 

And  though  the  damsel  is  no  weight, 
By  both  her  bearers,  sad  to  state, 
I  fear  she 's  not  admired. 
For  oft  she  bids  them  mend  their  gait 
To  ask  them  is  her  hat  on  straight — 
And  that 's  what  makes  them  tired. 


[  39  ] 


Mary  Jane 


MARY  JANE ! 
I  knew  a  little  girl  by  that  name  long  ago, 
And  I  used  to  be  her  beau,  ain't  that  so — 
Mary  Jane  ? 

It 's  a  fa<5l  that  many  know 
Mary  Jane ! 

Mary  Jane ! 

We  parted  then  for  years,  you  and  I, 

Yet  I  often  sit  and  sigh  as  I  think  of  days  gone  by — 

Mary  Jane ! 

Indeed,  I  sometimes  cry — 

Mary  Jane ! 

Mary  Jane ! 

Oh,  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  sweetness  'bout  that  name, 

I  like  it  just  the  same,  and  I  think  you  are  to  blame, 

Mary  Jane ! 

For  you  changed  it — what  a  shame, 

Mary  Jane ! 

Mary  Jane ! 

Perhaps  you  thought  the  whole  thing  old  and  plain, 

But  when  you  dropped  the  "Jane"  I  can't  say  'twas  a  gain, 

Mary  Jane ! 

Oh,  you  marred  it  all  in  vain, 

Mary  Jane ! 

Mary  Jane ! 

You  may  stylish  sign  your  letters  now  "  Marie," 

[  40  ] 


But,  your  own  heart  will  agree,  you  would  rather  always  be 

Mary  Jane ! 

Just  the  same  old  girl  to  me, 

Mary  Jane  I 


Her  Pifture 

YOUR  pifture  is  winsome  and  stately, 
Your  pifture  is  pretty,  ah,  me  ! 
Shall  I  call  you  "  My  Lady,"  sedately, 
Or  write  to  you  hearty  and  free  ? 

Shall  I  hint  of  our  first  blissful  meeting, 

How  I  held  your  small  hand,  quite  dismayed  ? 

Shall  I  send  you  gay  verses  in  greeting, 
Like  Dobson  or  Locker  or  Praed  ? 

Shall  I  tell  of  our  troth  that  is  plighted  ? 

Shall  I  call  you  "  my  own  dainty  maid  "  ? 
Or  shall  I  confess  I  Ve  been  slighted, 

And  speak  of  you  as  "  a  jade  "  ? 

You  Ve  sent  it  and  lines  you  Ve  requested, 
And  the  writer  knows  not  what  to  do  — 

For  I  Ve  married  that  girl  you  "  detested  " 
Since  we  last  met  —  and  you  never  knew. 


The  Passing  of  Tennis 

NO  more  the  cry  of  "Thirty,  All ! " 
Reechoes  from  the  lawn  j 
We've  laid  aside  the  tennis  ball, 
The  net  and  court  are  gone. 

Across  the  links  we  whack  the  earth 
With  clubs  of  gruesome  shape  j 

No  sound  of  joyousness  or  mirth 
From  us  we  let  escape. 

In  Scottish  hose  and  Scottish  breeks 

We  dawdle  o'er  the  green  5 
We  talk  of  "brassies"  and  of  "cleeks" 

And  know  not  what  we  mean. 

We  "put"  and  "drive,"  it  seems  an  age 

Since  last  we  played  at  tennis  $ 
Whose  name,  in  sooth,  since  golf's  the  rage, 

Seems  rather  to  be  Dennis. 

But,  still  I  like  the  good  old  sport, 

By  far  all  golf  above  ; 
For,  oft  we  courted  in  the  court, 

When  we  were  "  Twenty,  Love ! " 


[43  1 


To  an  American  Beauty 

THE  lass  I  love  's  fair  as  a  rose, 
One  of  this  season's  debutantes  j 
She  wins  all  hearts  where'er  she  goes  j 
Impartially  her  smiles  she  grants, 
She  is  a  bud. 

She 's  everything  that 's  fair  and  good, 
Her  presence  lightens  up  the  room  j 

She  's  blos'ming  into  womanhood, 
I  think  she 's  just  about  to  bloom  j 
She  is  a  bud. 

What  will  she  answer  when  I  pray 
That  she  will  deign  to  smile  on  me? 

What  will  she  do,  what  will  she  say  ? 

Will  all  my  dearest  hopes  then  be 

Nipped  in  the  bud  ? 


[44] 


The  Young  Widow 

A  I,  me  !  What  can  a  widow  do  ? 
I  cry  just  fit  to  kill, 
And  keep  my  crepe  all  black  and  new, 
And  don't  think  of  the  will. 

The  heartless  world  is  cruel  and  bad, 
Which  ever  way  you  take  it  j 

I  can't  be  glad,  I  can't  be  sad 
But  what  it  must  mistake  it. 

For  if  I  let  ten  minutes  pass 
In  which  I  have  not  sighed, 

Or  steal  a  glance  toward  my  glass, 
They  say  "  She 's  glad  he  died." 

Or,  if  by  chance  I  mope  all  day, 
And  sigh  with  grief  unending  j 

I  have  some  dearest  friends  that  say 
That  I  am  but  pretending. 

And  all  around  are  gay,  save  me  j 

Why  should  n't  it  be  right 
If  t'ward  the  general  gayety 

I  'd  add  a  widow's  mite  ? 


[45  ] 


She  Stoops  to  Conquer 

THE  doaor  said,  "She  must  go  out 
And  take  some  exercise  ; 
You  must  not  let  her  mope  about 
As  she  does  in  this  wise." 

In  vain  I  coaxed  and  begged  and  plead, 

Cajoled  her  and  abused  ; 
"  I  feel  too  tired,"  was  all  she  said } 

And  still  she  sat  and  mused. 

And  then  I  had  a  brilliant  thought, 

And  seized  at  once  upon  it ; 
That  day  a  stunning  dress  I  bought, 

Also  a  cunning  bonnet. 


And  now  she  goeth  forth  arrayed 

In  all  her  panoply 
To  see  if  there  is  wife  or  maid 

Who  is  well-dressed  as  she. 

Her  health  and  color  have  returned 

Her  interest  in  life  ; 
But,  to  this  day,  I  Ve  not  discern'd 

Who  V  fooled — /,  or  my  'wife! 


[46  ] 


The  Substitute  Caddie 

OH,  I  hardly  know  the  game  yet,  tho'  I  Ve  often  seen  them  play  it, 
But  Winnie  likes  to  play  it,  and  that  's  enough  for  me  j 
"  For  goff  is  such  a  nice  game  "  thus  I  often  hear  her  say  it, 
And  she 's  the  lady  champion  and  plays  it  to  a  tee. 

It  lets  her  wear  bright  plaiding,  and  cute  Tarn  O'Shanter  caps, 
And  she  makes  a  stunning  figure  as  she  moves  across  the  links  j 

And  I  like  to  see  her  play  it  —  so  do  the  other  chaps  — 
Tho1  she  really  does  n't  play  it  quite  as  finely  as  she  thinks. 

And  when  this  dainty  lassie  uses  "lofter,"  "cleek"  or  "brassie," 
(Here  I  'm  doubling  up  in  metre,  which  is  simply  waste  of  rhyme,) 

I  oft  say  to  her,  "  Dear  Winnie,  we  used  to  call  it  shinny, 

Except  the  way  you  play  it  takes  from  dawn  till  supper-time." 

She  answers  back  my  scoffing, "I 'm  sure  it's  different — goffing 
Is  a  very  old  Scotch  pastime  ;  not  what  you  say  at  all !  " 

And  I  acquiesce  quite  weakly  and  follow  after  meekly 
As  her  caddie,  toting  golf  sticks  and  hunting  for  the  ball. 


[47  ] 


To  a  Fay  re  Ladye 

OH,  love,  gaze  not  in  your  looking-glass, 
You  make  my  heart  despair  j 
Your  mirror  is  truthful,  and,  alas ! 
It  tells  you  you  are  fair. 

Turn  from  your  mirror,  for  in  mine  eyes 

Is  your  semblance  fair  refle&ed, 
Framed  with  the  love  that  behind  it  lies  — 

Far  more  than  you  suspefted. 

And  I  '11  have  no  fear  of  your  glass  again, 

Impassive,  shining  there, 
For  the  love  in  my  eyes  will  show  you  plain 

Your  beauty  doubly  fair ! 


[48  ] 


The  Cruel  Toinette 

FAIR  Toinette  with  Alphonse  met, 
Alphonse  loved  her  dearly ; 
Fair  Toinette  had  eyes  of  jet, 
She  could  see  it  clearly. 

"Take,  adored  one,  this  small  flower," 
Alphonse  said  with  trembling, 

"That  I  plucked  within  this  bower"  — 
In  this  he  was  dissembling. 

Then  said  Toinette,  the  sad  coquette, 

"  See,  it 's  frosty  autumn  — 
You  could  not  get  such  flowers  yet 

""Less  it  was  that  you  bought  'em  ! " 

"  What  matters  it  from  whence  it  came  ? " 

Said  Alphonse,  nearly  crazy ; 
"  Bought  or  found,  't  is  all  the  same, 

Like  you,  it  is  a  daisy." 

And  then  Toinette,  cruel  coquette, 

Proceeded  on  the  spot 
To  make  each  leaf  add  to  his  grief 

By  spelling,  "  Love  him  not !  " 


[49  1 


The  Averted  Sacrifice 


back  with  my  heart  !  "  the  maiden  cried, 
"  For  you  have  no  right  to  take  it  !  " 
"It  is  safer  with  me,"  young  Love  replied, 

"  You  were  only  trying  to  break  it  ? 
What  is  another's  wealth  to  you  ? 

When  a  heart  's  broke  who  can  splice  it  ? 

"  Go  back  to  the  lover  who  loves  you  true, 

You  shall  not  sacrifice  it  ! 
Go  greet  your  lover  and  give  him  a  kiss 

And  a  truce  to  your  tears  and  sighing  ; 
Your  heart's  in  pawn  until  you  do  this"  — 

And  the  maiden  ceased  her  crying. 


[  50] 


Bunch  of 
Bowery  ^Ballads 


///.  *A  Bunch  of  Bowery  Ballads 
"Mame" 

A  Ballad  of  Cherry  Hill 

A'  dark,  at  dark  on  Cherry  Hill, 
With  der  gas  jets  flarin"  bright, 
An'  der  singin'  sailors  never  still, 
An'  de  dancin'  all  the  night  — 
But  I  ain't  got  nuthin'  a'  tall  ter  say, 

An'  nuthin'  a'  tall  I  see ; 
Thinkin'  o'  Mame,  as  I  do  all  day, 
An'  de  gang  is  on  ter  me. 

Alone,  alone,  dey  Ve  shook  me  dead, 

Though  dey  're  all  afeard  to  chaff  j 
An'  never  a  guy  one  word  has  said, 

But  I  know  I  gits  der  laugh. 
O  Mame  !  O  Mame  !  it 's  all  fer  you 

I  'm  t'rown-down  like  dis,  —  see  ? 
But  all  der  same  I  loves  yer  true 

An'  de  gang  is  on  ter  me. 

A  mont',  a  mont',  since  we  first  met 

On  a  'scursion  down  the  bay, 
Of  der  Michael  Feeny  Social  Set } 

Oh,  der  fun  we  had  dat  day ! 
An'  comin'  back  der  big  bright  moon 

Shone  silver  on  de  sea  ; 
[  53  ] 


We  spieled  at  ev'ry  chowder  tune, 
Till  de  gang  got  on  ter  me. 

All  day,  all  day,  I  'm  workin'  hard 

As  I  never  worked  before, 
A-jugglm'  stone  in  Clancy's  Yard 

Till  both  me  hands  is  sore. 
So  have  me  fer  yer  steady  fel', 

An'  say  you  're  stuck  on  me. 
As  fer  de  rest  —  aw,  wot  t'  'ell, 

If  de  gang  is  on  ter  me  ! 


[  54] 


The  Lilac  Ball,  Walhalla  Hall 

A  Ballad  of  the  Bowery 

WALHALLA  HALL,  Walhalla  Hall,  jest  off  der  Bowery, 
Night  of  der  Mask  and  Civic  Ball  of  der  Lilac  Coterie. 
An'  I  wuz  dere  an'  she  wuz  dere,  wit1  ninety  couples  more  j 
But,  say !  No  one  was  anywhere  when  Gertie  took  der  floor 
Wit1  me,  wit1  me  ter  repersent  a  jockey  from  der  track, 
An1  her  as  "Night,"  wit1  big  gilt  stars  all  spangled  on  her  black. 
We  did  der  pivot  out  o1  sight,  der  chain  waltz  —  dat  wuz  grand ! 
While  keepin1  perfec1  time  an1  step  to  Ikey  Goldstein's  Band. 

Walhalla  Hall,  Walhalla  Hall,  jest  off  der  Bowery, 

Wit'  swell  mugs  standin'  'gainst  der  wall  an1  lookin'  on  ter  see 

Wot  down-town  social  life  wuz  like,  an1  holler  out  "oncore !" 

We  copped  'em  all,  dat 's  right,  sure,  Mike  !  When  Gertie  took  der  floor 

Wit'  me,  wit'  me  wot 's  won  four  times  der  prize  at  Jones's  Wood, 

An'  her,  me  loidy  fren',  each  time,  wot  waltzes  jest  as  good  j 

The  cal'sum  light  jest  follered  us  j  we  made  de  odders  stand 

An1  watch  us  do  der  Boston  Dip  to  Ikey  Goldstein's  Band. 

Walhalla  Hall,  Walhalla  Hall,  some  fresh  mugs  gettin'  gay, 

One  geezer  givin'  Gert  a  stall  an'  me  not  far  away ; 

Sez  he,  "  Come,  kiss  yer  honey  boy !  "  I  waited  fer  no  more, 

But  give  me  coat  to  Mickey  Foy  —  an'  Gertie  took  der  floor 

Wit'  me,  wit1  me  ter  back  her  up  j  an'  can  I  scrap  ?  Well,  some! 

One  gent  I  hit  went  troo1  der  band  and  busted  in  der  drum. 

Fer  Gertie  is  a  loidy,  respec1  she  must  command, 

D'ough  it  busts  up  a  Lilac  Ball  and  Ikey  Goldstein's  Band. 


[  55  1 


The  Belle  of  the  Beanery 

OH,  Kitty !  I  am  poor  indeed, 
Yet  while  your  smiles  you  grant 
I  'd  rather  come  here  fer  my  feed 
Den  der  Jim  Fisk  resterant. 

Fer  when  a  feller 's  lost  his  heart, 

Wot  matter  where  he  eats  ? 
So  ev'ry  day  I  dine  la  cart 

Where  you  call  "  Brown  th'  Wheats  ! " 

An'  so  I  allus  come  to  dine 

Here  at  this  drum  of  Kinney's ; 

You  "re  here,  that 's  better  than  the  wine 
And  tabble  dotes  of  Ginney's. 

I  wish  I  was  a  millionaire, 

An'  not  a  workin'  porter  $ 
I  'd  make  a  play  fer  you  fer  fair 

An'  speak  up  as  I  orter. 

But  as  I  ain't,  I  just  come  here 

Most  ev'ry  day  an'  eats, 
Just  satisfied  to  have  you  near 

An'  calling  "  Brown  th'  Wheats ! " 


[  56] 


Before  the  Ball 

WE  'VE  orginized  a  social  club,  we  're  goin'  ter  give  a  ball 
T'anksgivin'  night,  a  maskerade  in  old  Pythogras  Hall. 
Der  orchester  ?  Why,  Foley's — you  ought  ter  hear  'em  play. 
A  crowd  '11  come  ter  make  der  place  about  four  times  too  small ; 
De  odder  balls  dere  '11  be  dat  night  dey  won't  be  near  at  all. 
Say! 

Kitty  will  be  dere  !  She  '11  twirl  wit'  none  but  me  ; 

De  odder  duffs  dat  try  to  win  her  won't  be  in  it.  See  ? 

I  'm  on  der  floor  committee,  but  I  '11  shake  dat  graft  fer  Kitty, 

I  'm  goin'  to  wear  a  dress  suit  dat  '11  cost  me  t'ree  ! 

Gee! 

Dere  '11  be  a  prize  awarded  fer  de  best-dressed  lady  dere, 
A  fourteen  carat  super  dat  ticks  de  time  fer  fair ; 
I'm  on  der  prize  committee,  also  a  little  bit, — 
De  goils  are  crazy  fer  dat  watch,  and  so  what  they  kin  spare 
Goes  fer  a  fancy  costoom — der  award  is  on  de  square. 
Nit! 

Fer  Kitty  will  be  dere,  she  kin  depend  on  me, 
De  odder  fellers'  lady  fren's  dey  won't  be  in  it.  See  ? 
I  'm  on  der  prize  committee,  so  der  super  goes  ter  Kitty, 
Or  dere 's  trouble  fer  de  odders  if  my  way  dey  don't  agree. 
Whee ! 


[  57  ] 


Two  Clowns 

THE  ONE 

HIS  motley  garb  was  red  and  yellow, 
Gay  as  the  merry  jests  he  told  ; 
Such  a  very  funny  fellow, 
But  his  jokes  were  very  old. 

Danced  he  round  the  stern  ring-master 
Cracking  many  a  quirk  and  quip ; 

Ran  and  laughed  and  tumbled  faster, 
Dodging  nimbly  from  the  whip. 

Paid  he  court,  and  that  most  knightly, 

To  the  fair  equestrienne, 
Bowed  and  scraped  he  most  politely ; 

Ne'er  such  homage  giv'n  of  men ! 

• 
Hoop-la  !  'mid  the  sawdust  flying 

Still  he  jests  in  boisterous  mirth, 
Thousands  laugh  until  they're  crying  — 

'T  is  the  greatest  show  on  earth  ! 


THE  OTHER 

Though  I  wear  no  red  and  yellow. 
Still  most  every  day  I  'm  told 

I  'm  an  awfully  funny  fellow, 
But  I  fear  my  jests  are  old. 

[  58  ] 


Fate,  stern  Fate,  is  my  ring-master, 
Cracks  he  sternly  with  the  whip  j 

Still  must  I  grind  faster,  faster, 
Merry  jests  and  quirk  and  quip. 

Pay  I  court,  and  that  most  knightly, 

To  the  Editor  so  cold, 
Bow  and  scrape  I  most  politely, 

(Does  he  think  my  jokes  are  old  ?) 

Hoop-la !  mummer-like,  contriving 
Living  scant  to  earn  by  mirth, 

Day  by  day,  still  vainly  striving, 
But  I  have  no  show  on  earth ! 


[  591 


The  Passing  of  the  Wild  West 

A  Recitation 

NO  more  the  wild  fire  fiercely  leaps 
Across  the  trackless  plains, 
The  Eastern  Pie  Belt  wider  creeps 
And  holds  its  sodden  gains. 

Through  wilds,  where  once  in  salted  mines 

Delved  tenderfeet  elate, 
The  hobo  waits  by  two-track  lines 

To  catch  the  east-bound  freight. 

The  unshod  mustang,  lithe  and  thin, 

That  bore  the  savage  chief, 
Is  corralled,  slaughtered,  put  in  tin 

And  sold  as  canned  corn-beef. 

Now  in  the  haunts  of  buffalo 

The  traftion  engine  raves  ; 
All  kinds  of  garden  sass  they  grow 

Above  old  Injun  graves. 

The  horse  thief  of  another  day, 

Who,  unhung,  plied  his  trade, 
Now  swipes,  and  scorches  swift  away, 

The  bikes  of  highest  grade. 

The  rough  saloons,  where  not  to  drink 

Invoked  the  bullet's  whizz, 
Are  marbled  drug  stores  where  the  wink 

Precedes  the  soda's  fizz. 
[  60  ] 


No  more  the  "prairie  schooners"  drift 

Across  the  alkali, 
For  now  the  horseless  carriage  swift 

Goes  whishing,  swishing  by ; 

No  old  tar  bucket  at  its  stern, 

Or  yaller  dorg  is  seen, 
Instead,  a  motor's  cog-wheels  turn, 

Mid  smells  of  gasoline. 

Where  once  the  redskin,  to  the  death, 

Fought  pioneer  and  scout, 
The  Swede,  with  alcoholic  breath, 

Sets  rows  of  cabbage  out. 

And  now  the  "  Norther's  "  icy  squall 
Howls  loud  but  vainly  storms ; 

The  blanket  mortgage  over  all 
With  treble  thickness  warms. 

Ah,  brave,  wild  West,  that  we  in  youth 

Used  with  romance  to  link, 
Alas,  't  is  truth,  you  Ye  now,  in  sooth, 

Completely  on  the  dink  ! 


Ground  Hog  Day 


GRANTAP  argifies  he  did.  He 's  shore  as  shore  can  be  ; 
I  never  seed  so  obstinit  ol'  feller  such  as  he. 

An*  Maw  an'  me  we  watched  out  sharp,  an"1  we  say  thut  he  didn't, 
Fer  all  day  long  the  sun  behind  a  cloudy  sky  was  hiddent. 
But  Gran'pap  argifies  his  way  an'  keeps  on  gitten  madder, 
An'  says  fer  once  the  sun  kem  out,  the  groun'  hawg  saw  his  shadder. 

"  An  airly  Spring,"  sez  Maw  an'  me,  but  Gran'pap  's  obstinit  j 
"  The  groun'  hawg  saw  his  shadder,  we  '11  git  more  Winter  yit." 
An'  there  he  sets  so  confident,  an'  says  "  he  did,  he  did," 
Though  all  the  while  ewe  know  the  sun  behind  the  clouds  was  hid. 
But,  like  as  not,  no  signs  '11  count,  we  '11  get  more  storm  an'  snow, 
While  Gran'pap  by  the  chimbley  sits  an'  says,  "  I  told  yer  so ! " 


Ballade  of  the  Goats 

Imitation  of  Villon 

TELL  me  where,  in  what  land  of  shade, 
Bides  fair  Nanny  of  Harlem  j  where 
Is  Buckbilly,  who  lightly  played 

From  the  vacant  lots  to  his  rocky  lair, 
And  Gilligan's  goat  that  was  scalded  bare  ? 

The  pride  of  the  squatter  no  more  we  know, 
And  the  Rosedale  Flats  tower  high  in  air  — 
But  the  goats  ?  Oh  !  ask  me  of  last  year's  snow. 

For  the  tarriers  long  have  drilled  the  rock, 

Have  drilled  and  blasted  and  fired  away  j 
And  the  flats  have  risen,  block  on  block, 

Where  the  gentle  goat  has  leaped  in  play. 
No  more  doth  the  Celt  in  his  shanty  stay, 

Or  in  Kerry  Patch  his  cabbages  grow, 
Or  sport  his  regalia  on  Patrick's  Day  — 

And  the  goat  ?  Oh  !  ask  me  of  last  year's  snow. 

Oh  !  where  is  the  goat  of  the  A.  O.  H., 

Ridden  by  Casey  and  Kelly  and  Dwyer  ? 
Where  is  the  billy  who  thought  he  could  tache 

Some  sinse  to  the  goat  of  the  Widow  Maguire  ?  - 
The  goat  that  foolishly  dared  to  aspire 

To  lay  the  champion  of  Shantytown  low  j 
And  where  are  the  goats  of  Mike  Mclntyre  ? 

Ask  me  j  oh  !  ask  me  of  last  year's  snow. 

[  63  ] 


I/  ENVOI 
Prince>  you  may  question  where  the  goats  are, 

While  northward,  still  northward,  the  city  doth  grow 
For  the  rocks  and  the  shanties  no  longer  are  there, 

And  the  goats  ?  Oh  !  ask  me  of  last  year's  snow. 


[  64] 


Various  Ferfes 


IV.  Various  Verfes 


Aunt  Hetty  at  the  County  Fair 

"  1     ^  ZR A  likes  the  cattle  best, 

§H          Wants  to  spend  the  hull  time  there  j 
*     <4  Sees  the  prize  stock  and  the  rest, 
Sez,  *  That  makes  a  County  Fair ! ' 


"  Likes  the  trotters,  and  he  '11  shout, 
*  Bet  yer  Perkins's  colt  '11  beat ! ' 
Makes  me  stand  and  watch  it  out, 
Till  they  trot  the  final  heat. 

"  And  me  jest  dying  fer  to  see 

The  temp'rence  stand  the  wimmen  built 
Where  Mis'  Ann  Beasley  's  waitin'  me, 
To  show  me  her  prize  crazy  quilt. 

"  Five  thousand  pieces,  arid  it  took 

Two  years  to  make  it,  Mis'  Ann  said  5 
I  got  no  chance  to  have  a  look, 
Fer  Ez  takes  me  elsewhere  instead. 

"  He 's  sick  of  fancy  work,  is  Ez, 

Fer  cakes  and  jellies  does  n't  care  5 
'  Let 's  see  some  novelties,'  he  sez, 

4  They  've  got  *em  this  year  at  the  Fair.' 

[  67  ] 


"And  so  we  saw  a  Cairo  Street, 

The  man  said  't  was  a  moral  show  ; 
It  may  have  bin,  but  I  'm  clean  beat 
If  I  could  ever  think  it  so. 

"According  to  the  man's  remarks, 

In  Bible  days  they  danced  as  there ; 
If  so  —  of  them  old  patriarchs 

I  'm  dubious  since  the  County  Fair ! 


The  Time  of  the  Ramadan 

And  its  Difference  Here  and  There 

BY  Bagdad's  shrines  of  fretted  gold,  by  the  Tigris's  yellow  flow, 
Where  the  palace-lights  on  Ramadan  nights  gleam  with  a  mellow 

glow, 

Then  the  days  are  times  of  solemn  fasts  and  prayers  toward  the  East, 
But  at  set  of  sun  the  fast  is  done  and  the  Mussulman  can  feast. 

,Oh  !  it  must  be  grand  to  live  in  that  land,  a  Caliph  or  a  Cadi, 
With  no  worry  in  life  and  to  have  as  a  wife  some  dark-eyed  Persian  lady. 
One  could  have  more  —  say  three  or  four — and  be  a  full-fledged  Turk, 
And  take  one's  measure  of  languid  leisure  and  never  have  to  work. 

Where  attared  fountains  cast  their  spray  in  showers  of  gleaming  pearls 
To  soft  recline  while  slaves  serve  wine,  till  the  time  of  the  dancing  girls ; 
Who  come  when  the  jewelled  hookahs  burn  and  the  scented  smoke-clouds 

rise, 
And  whose  motions  tell  what  Houris  dwell  in  Mahomed's  paradise. 

Oh  !  a  Ramadan  night  is  out  of  sight  (I  could  stand  the  fasting  day)  ; 
For  after  dark  it 's  a  regular  lark  in'  a  high  old  Turkish  way. 
But  here  it 's  Lent  ;  I  have  n't  a  cent,  and  my  chances  to  get  to  Turkey 
For  a  Ramadan  feast,  to  say  the  least,  are  somewhat  dark  and  murky. 


Aunt  Ann's  Plum  Pudding 

NOWADAYS  your  plum  puddin' 
Comes  out  of  a  can  j 
Nuthin'  like  the  real  old  thing 
Made  by  our  Aunt  Ann. 

Full  of  raisins  and  sech  things, 

Boiled  it  in  a  bag  ; 
Tell  you  what,  Aunt  Ann's  plum  puddin'  's 

'Nuff  to  make  you  brag. 

Allus  had  'em  fer  dessert 

Christmus  an'  Thanksgivin'  j 
The  very  sauce  that  went  with  'em 

Made  life  worth  the  livin'. 

No  vaniller  there,  I  guess, 

But  the  real  old  brandy ; 
Case  if  any  one  got  sick 

Aunt  Ann  kep'  it  handy. 

An'  though  the  folks  'at  eat  it  were 

All  ardent  prohibition, 
They  ust'  take  plenty  of  the  sauce 

Without  the  least  suspicion. 

And  many  a  bitter  family  fuss 
Aunt  Ann  was  cause  of  healin', 

Fer  after  sauce  and  puddin'  came 
An  ery  of  good  feelin'. 


[  70] 


The  Kid 

OUR  kid  has  jest  begun  to  walk, 
He  toddles  round  the  floor ; 
He 's  sorter  backward  yet  to  talk, 
But  hokey !  he  kin  roar. 

He  wants  a  thing,  he  wants  it  quick, 

Yer  got  to  git  it,  too, 
Or  he  '11  lay  down  and  yell  an'  kick, 

'T  would  split  yer  head  in  two. 

He  breaks  his  plate,  he  breaks  his  cup, 
He  scratches  up  the  walls ; 

He  tears  the  books  and  piftures  up, 
He 's  allers  gettin'  falls. 

He 's  got  poor  Towser  almost  mad, 
The  old  cat  dreads  his  clutch  ; 

I  guess  it 's  jest  because  he 's  bad 
We  love  that  kid  so  much ! 


Anent  the  Fourteenth  of  February 

WHEN  my  short  summers  numbered  nine, 
My  heart  still  aching  yet  because 
I  'd  learned  there  was  no  Santa  Claus, 
I  turned  then  to  that  saint  benign, 
Love's  patron,  good  Saint  Valentine, 

And  on  the  Fourteenth  of  February 
I  bought  a  Valentine  for  Mary. 

Smith  was  her  other  name.  It  had 

Some  verses  written  "  To  My  Love  ! " 
Borne  by  a  pretty  snow-white  dove. 
'T  was  lace  and  gilt,  such  was  the  fad 
In  Valentines  when  I,  a  lad, 

Bought  one  and  thought  to  send  it  with 
A  three-cent  stamp  to  Mary  Smith. 

I  'd  picked  her  out  of  all  the  crowd 
When  first  we  met ;  't  was  at  a  party  j 
But  she,  she  sniffed  and  called  me  "smarty," 
Turned  up  her  nose,  in  faft  was  proud, 
Nor  in  the  kiss  games  once  allowed 

My  near  approach ;  in  faft,  did  spurn 
All  forfeits  when  it  came  my  turn. 

Her  father  kept  a  butcher  store } 

I  longed  to  be  a  butcher  man 

In  jacket  knit  of  cardigan, 
For  this  he  in  all  seasons  wore, 
And  weighed  three  hundred  pounds  or  more. 

[7*] 


Her  brother  in  his  teens  was  callow ; 
He  greased  his  boots  with  mutton  tallow. 

Ah,  me !  by  some  mischance  I  sent 

That  Valentine,  with  fond  love  freighted, 
Unto  the  schoolma'am,  whom  I  hated. 
The  "comic"  for  the  teacher  meant 
Unto  the  lass  I  well  loved  went. 

Both  knew  from  whom  their  missives  came. 
The  teacher  smiled  j  but,  just  the  same, 

That  brother  big  caught  me  and  whopped 
Me  black  and  blue,  straightway,  forthwith  j 
While  cruel,  scoffing  Mary  Smith 
Stood  by  and  laughed,  nor  stayed  nor  stopped 
Her  brother,  till  his  tired  arm  dropped. 
He  ate  beefsteak  three  times  a  day, 
And  whopping  me  for  him  was  play. 

Old  Smith  these  many  years  is  dead. 

His  son,  who  harshly  used  me  so, 

Now  runs  the  beefsteak  studio. 

And  Mary  ?  she  long  since  has  wed 

Her  brother's  Dutch  assistant,  Fred. 

Thus  dainty  cards  by  Tuck  and  Prang 
Rouse  up  old  mem'ries  with  a  pang. 


[73  ] 


Song  of  the  Old  Sky  Blue 

THE  old  Sky  Blue,  the  old  Sky  Blue, 
She 's  now  but  a  battered  hulk  ; 
But  years  ago,  when  she  was  new 

An'  carried  coal  in  bulk, 
No  boat  along  the  whole  canal 
Had  such  a  team  or  crew  — 
Singing  "  Hi !  I  love  a  yaller  gal ! " 
The  old  Sky  Blue,  Sky  Blue. 

The  old  Sky  Blue,  the  old  Sky  Blue, 

Oh,  she  only  ran  by  day ; 
We  used  to  dance  the  whole  night  through 

And  on  the  banjo  play. 
Tied  to  the  berm,  to  laugh  and  shout 

At  night-boats  passing  through  — 
Singing  "  Hi !  does  yer  mother  know  yer  out  ? " 

The  old  Sky  Blue,  Sky  Blue. 

The  old  Sky  Blue,  the  old  Sky  Blue, 

She  was  my  pride  and  joy  ; 
One  time  I  worked  my  passage  through 

On  her  as  a  driver  boy. 
If  I  tried  to  ride,  the  mules  'd  balk, 

Then  up  comes  the  chaffin1  crew 
Singing  "  Hi !  don't  you  think  you  'd  better  walk  ? ' 

The  old  Sky  Blue,  Sky  Blue. 

The  old  Sky  Blue,  the  old  Sky  Blue, 
I  'm  glad  your  days  are  done ; 

[  74] 


For  mules  were  good  enough  for  you 

In  them  old  times  'at 's  gone. 
They  'd  put  a  motor  in  you  now, 

You  'd  be  a  night-boat,  too  — 
Singing  "Hi !  for  the  trolley  on  your  bow  ! 

The  old  Sky  Blue,  Sky  Blue. 


[  75  1 


The  Place  called  "Easy  Street" 

OH  !  what  is  the  way  to  Easy  Street  —  which  turning  shall  I  go  ? 
For  many  a  day  I  Ve  sought  the  way  that  no  one  seems  to  know. 
How  do  you  turn  ?  —  do  you  keep  straight  on,  and  get  there  just  by  pluck, 
Or  is  it  the  case  that  you  find  the  place  by  chance  and  happy  luck  ? 
Some  say  this  and  some  say  that,  for  every  one  I  meet, 
Going  it  blind  or  searching  to  find,  is  looking  for  Easy  Street. 

Easy  Street!  Easy  Street!  The  street  so  hard  to  find! 
No  sign-boards  show  the  route  to  go  save  the  ways  that  lie  behind. 
But  Fortune's  smile  is  worth  the  while,  so  never  know  defeat, 
When  the  very  next  turn  for  you  may  earn  the  way  to  Easy  Street. 

From  little  Queer  Street  through  Hard  Times  Court  to  the  Highway  of 

Success, 

Is  the  nearest  way,  I  Ve  heard  some  say,  and  it  is  true,  I  guess. 
So  through  Poverty  Place  my  way  I  trace  (with  Queer  Street  left  behind), 
But  in  Hard  Times  Court  the  way  's  cut  short  —  it  ends  in  an  alley  blind. 
In  the  Lane  of  Chance  I  sometimes  glance,  but  the  risk  seems  all  too  great, 
To  turn  and  stray  down  its  winding  way  and  blindly  follow  fate. 
So,  with  courage  high,  I  strive  and  try,  seeking  with  weary  feet, 
My  way  to  grope,  nerved  still  with  hope,  the  way  to  Easy  Street ! 

Easy  Street!  Easy  Street!  Where  happy  mortals  dwell, 
Out  of  the  strife  of  work-day  life  and  the  battles  of  buy  and  sell. 
Wearing  good  clothes,  having  no  foes,  with  lifers  good  things  replete, 
Oh,  happy  fate !  to  dwell  in  state,  at  last,  on  Easy  Street! 

We  will  all  of  us  live  on  Easy  Street  when  things  have  gone  our  way, 
When  fortune  and  fame  shall  attend  our  name  and  leisure  comes  to  stay, 

C  76  ] 


Through  the  deed  achieved  we  Ve  had  in  our  minds  the  long  last  year  or 
two; 

Giving  us  zest  to  finish  the  rest  of  the  things-we-are-going-to-do. 

With  the  toil  of  these  struggling  days  forgot,  and  our  happiness  all  com- 
plete, 

No  trouble  or  care  will  bother  us  there  when  we  live  on  Easy  Street ! 

Easy  Street!  Easy  Street!  Where  the  skies  are  always  blue, 
And  all  of  the  schemes  of  our  well-loved  dreams  are  e<ver  coming  true. 
We  V/  li<ve  at  our  ease  and  do  as  we  please  and  find  that  life  is  sweet 
When  through  toll  and  pain  at  last  we  gain  our  way  to  Easy  Street! 


[  77  ] 


" Settled  Down" 

A  rude  and  simple  Lay,  concerning  one  Brown, 
which  concealeth  a  Moral 

EB.  BROWN  he  was  a  steady  lad 
Who  worked  from  dawn  till  dark  j 
He  never  knew  of  boyish  fun, 

Or  had  a  boyish  lark. 
And  all  the  neighbors  praised  him  up — 

"That  son  of  Farmer  Brown, 
Who  seems  so  kind  of  sensible, 
So  old  and  settled  down." 

And  as  he  grew  in  size  and  age 

His  habits  were  the  same j 
He  worked  and  worked,  and  still  he  held 

For  steadiness  his  name. 
He  never  went  out  with  the  boys, 

Or  painted  red  the  town  ; 
He  married  a  good  and  quiet  girl, 

"  And  went  and  settled  down." 

The  other  boys  whom  he  had  known, 

Ambitious,  sought  for  fame  j 
One  died  the  Gov'nor  of  the  State, 

One  gained  a  hero's  name. 
But  still  Eb.'s  course  had  steady  been, 

He  sought  no  praise,  renown  — 
"  Let  others  roam,  I  '11  stay  at  home," 

Said  he,  "and  settle  down." 

[  78  ] 


A  few  days  since  I  passed  the  place 

Where  he  is  laid  to  rest  j 
(For  long  the  church-yard  grass  has  grown 

Above  that  tired  breast.) 
And  even  here  it  is  the  same 

For  Ebenezer  Brown  — 
The  very  grave  wherein  he  lies, 

Like  him,  has  settled  down. 


[  793 


His  Heroes 

Aubrey,  loquitur 

GOLLY  !  My  mother  does  n't  know 
What  good  times  I  have,  you  bet ! 
Or  where  o'  Saturdays  I  go, 
'N'  I  ain't  goin'  tell  her  yet. 

For,  what  does  mothers  know  'bout  boys  ? 

Think  they  ought  to  look  like  girls, 
An'  fix  'em  up  like  Fauntleroys — 

Want  to  see  'em  wearin'  curls. 

The  "Injun  Killers" — that"**  my  crowd  !  — 
Hang  out  round  the  tan-yard  shed  — 

Buck  Brown  an'  Double-jointed  Dowd, 
Wot  kin  kick  things  off  his  head. 

An'  Chalkey  White,  a  nigger  boy, 
Yet  he 's  a  member,  just  the  same, 

Like  Scotty  Smith  an'  Mickey  Foy, 
Or  crippled  Dick  Malone,  'at 's  lame. 

An'  Buck  Brown 's  got  a  pistol  —  Phew ! 

He 's  'le&ed  capt'in  jest  fer  that ; 
It 's  seven-shooter,  twenty-two  — 

One  time  I  seen  him  shoot  a  cat ! 

Buck  Brown 's  a  feller  awful  nice, 
You  ought  to  see  him  a-doin'  stunts } 

He  licked  Yeller  Hammer  Rice 
Fer  givin'  me  Injun  turnip  once. 
[  80  ] 


Gee-whizz  !  He 's  smart ;  he  's  got  a  stack 
Of  Nickel  Lib'ries  he 's  read  through, 

'Bout  Denver  Dan  an'  Pinto  Jack  j 
He 's  goin'  to  let  me  read  'em,  too. 

An'  once  I  tumbled  in  the  vat  5 

But  he,  he  wouldn't  let  me  drown  — 

Say,  if  my  mother  knew  of  that, 

Would  she  be  kind  to  poor  Buck  Brown  ? 


[81  ] 


A  Marsh  Symphony 

THE  little  frog  sits  on  the  bank  by  the  pool 
When  the  stars  are  beginning  to  peep  j 
The  night  wind  comes  sighing  by  softly  and  cool, 
And  he  's  plaintively  singing  "  Knee  Deep ! " 

Knee  Deep!  Knee  Deep  !  And  it  "sfar  to  the  kg 
Where  waits  the  frog  maiden  he  lo<ves  in  the  bog  j 

And  his  clothes  are  all  new,  so  what  can  he  do  ? 
"  Knee  T>eep! "  wails  the  poor  little  frog. 

Far  o'er  by  the  innermost  depths  of  the  marsh, 

From  his  lair  by  the  calamus  roots, 
The  big  bull-frog's  voice  rings  dismal  and  harsh 

As  he  answers  him  back,  " RUBBER  BOOTS  ! " 

RUBBER  BOOTS  !  RUBBER  BOOTS  !  to  wade  to  the  log 
Where  'waits  the  frog  maiden  you  love  in  the  bog — 

If  your  clothes  are  all  new  that  V  the  best  thing  to  do. 
" RUBBER  BOOTS  ! "  says  the  big  bull-frog. 

But  such  foot  gear  is  scarce,  or  he  finds  none  that  suits, 

For  still  will  that  little  frog  weep  j 
And  all  night  the  bull-frog  cries  back  "RUBBER  BOOTS 

When  he  hears  him  calling  "Knee  Deep!'"' 

"Knee  Deep!"  "RUBBER  BOOTS  ! "  a  duet  in  the  bog^ 

'The  frog  maid  forlorn  is  alone  on  her  kg. 
What  can  her  kve  do  'when  his  clothes  are  all  new? 

"RUBBER  BOOTS  !  "  cries  the  big  bull-frog. 


Ballade  of  Old  Songs 

TELL  me  where,  in  what  land  of  shade, 
Echo  the  strains  of  the  songs  once  sung 
By  young  and  old,  by  man  and  maid, 
In  childish  treble,  by  lisping  tongue, 
By  singers  great,  where  spellbound  hung 
The  throng.  The  tunes  that  once  were  played 
By  organ  men  both  far  and  near, 

Nor  stayed  nor  stopped  till  coin  they'd  wrung - 
Where  are  the  songs  of  yester  year  ? 

Where  is  "Emma"  we  sung  with  "Whoa  !  "  — 

That  stirring  tune,  "The  Golden  Stairs," 
Or  "  Annie  Rooney,"  loved  by  Joe, 

"Sweet  Violets"  and  kindred  airs  ? 

No  one  remembers  now  nor  cares  j 
"Marguerite"  they  no  longer  know, 
"  Peek-a-Boo  "  is  forgot,  I  fear, 

"White  Wings,"  too.  It  is  better  so  — 
Where  are  the  songs  of  yester  year  ? 

L'  ENVOI 
Prince,  they  are  gone.  Yet  still  allow 

One  hope  is  left  us  full  of  cheer  : 
Songs  as  bad  we  are  singing  now 

Will  soon  be  the  songs  of  yester  year. 


When  Mary  Climbed  the  Tree 


o 


N  ev'ry  bough  ripe  cherries  hung, 
At  ev'ry  breeze  they  swayed  and  swung, 
And 
Mary 
Climbed 
The 
Tree. 


The  feeding  robins  flew  away 

As  Mary  climbed  that  summer  day 

And 

Zeb 

He 

Stopt 

To 

See. 


Watching  her  feat  in  wild  surprise, 
Watching  her  feet  with  open  eyes 

As 

Mary 

Climbed 

The 

Tree. 


[  84] 


"  Go  'way ! "  she  shrieked,  and  held  her  gown, 
But  he  said,  "  I  '11  stay  till  you  come  down, 

I'll 

Nev- 

Er 

Leave, 

You 

Bet ! " 

Sing  hey !  for  the  yokel  who  laughed  in  glee 
At  the  weeping  maid  in  the  cherry  tree  — 

She's 

Sit- 

Ting 

Up 

There 

Yet. 


[85  1 


The  Guileless  Chinaman 

IT  is  the  guileless  Chinaman, 
Upon  his  way  he  goes, 
With  merry  smile  and  cheek  of  tan 
And  basketful  of  clothes. 

Of  mocking  jibes  and  taunting  cries 

He  neither  heeds  nor  cares  j 
But  still  upon  his  way  he  hies 

And  minds  his  own  affairs. 

He  never  swears,  he  never  fights, 

He  never  loafs  nor  drinks, 
He  never  "  stands  up  for  his  rights," 

Nor  tells  you  what  he  thinks. 

His  terms  are  striftly  C.  O.  D., 
He  asks  but  what 's  his  due ; 

Don't  bother  him  at  all  and  he 
Will  never  bother  you. 

And  oft  beneath  his  hat  you  '11  see 
His  plaited  hair  close  rolled : 

He  goes  his  way — but  yet  could  he 
A  curious  tail  unfold. 


[86] 


Ye  Foolish  Old  Bard  and  Ye  Wise 
Young  Troubadour 

YE  mightie  King  sat  in  his  halle,  his  nobles  at  his  syde, 
But  bored,  in  sooth,  to  say  the  truth,  for  all  his  haughtie  pride. 
He  would  not  to  ye  green  woode  goe,  nor  hunting  of  ye  hart  or  doe, 

What  once  he  much  admired. 

And  when  Sir  Bertram  Bevis  spake  of  hawking  heron  by  ye  lake, 
Ye  King  with  glance  did  make  him  quake. 
Saith  he  :  "  You  make  me  tired  !  " 

Then  up  and  stood  his  seneschal  and  craved  his  liege's  grace  j 

He  saith  :  "  There  stands  without  ye  halle  two  wand'ring  minstrels  at 

your  call, 
And  strangers  to  ye  place. 

A  Harper  one,  a  man  of  eld,  a  bard  such  as  in  Scotia  dwelled 
In  other  times  gone  by. 

He  wakes  his  wild  harp's  martial  strains  with  sturdy,  strong,  and  bold 

refrains 
Which  make  men  fight  and  die. 

Ye  other 's  but  a  Troubadour,  such  as  without  ye  postern  door 
At  midnight  serenades. 

And  tho'  ye  archers  at  him  shoot,  yet  still  ye  maundering  galoot, 
Will  yowl  his  ballads  to  his  lute  to  please  ye  love-sicke  maides." 

"We  '11  see  him  later,"  said  ye  King ;  "  but  first  we  '11  have  ye  Harper  sing. 

These  lutists  give  me  pains  ! 

But  wand'ring  minstrels  bowed  with  age  are  taught  by  time  to  be  more 
sage, 

And  come  in  when  it  rains." 

[  87  ] 


Ye  Harper  's  seated  in  ye  halle,  across  ye  strings  his  fingers  falle, 

And  he  could  play,  I  wis ; 
He  bowed  with  reverence  to  ye  King,  and  with  crack *d  voice  essayed  to  sing, 

A  strain  that  ran  like  this  : 

"  O  King  !  ye  sit  within  your  halle,  with  knights  and  nobles  at  your  call, 

And  never  one  has  got  the  gall  to  ever  say  ye  nay ! 
But  all  these  vanities  of  thine,  thy  costly  fare  and  raiment  fine, 

Some  day  must  pass  away. 

Beware !  Beware  !  your  doleful  doom,  when  you  shall  moulder  in   ye 
tomb — " 

He  got  no  further,  for  ye  King  his  sceptre  then  did  at  him  fling, 

Which,  hap'ly,  was  not  sharp. 
The  dogs  were  at  ye  croaker  sic'd —  then  one  and  all  ye  good  knights  kicked 

Ye  stuffing  from  his  harp. 

"Bring  now  ye  other  minstrel  in !"  then  cried  ye  King,  as  mad  as  sin, 

"  And  if  he  sings  such  doleful  lays 
As  hath  this  mug  we  Ve  lately  heard,  upon  me  royal  oath  and  word 

I  '11  give  him  sixty  days  !" 

Ye  other  minstrel,  young  was  he,  he  touched  his  lute  most  daintilee 

And  said,  "  I  '11  do  me  best ; 

For  I  have  played  in  many  lands  with  Georgia  Minstrels — one-night 
stands  — 

But  out  in  Camelot  we  strands,  an'  I  hoofs  it  from  de  West ! " 

Then  he  touched  his  lute  to  a  merry  air,  and  did  his  best  turn  for  them 
there 

In  a  way  that  caught  ye  gang. 
He  had  no  doleful  tale  to  tell,  but  he  gave  them  ye  lay  of  "  Daisie  Belle," 

And  this,  likewise,  he  sang : 

[  88  ] 


"  Oh,  never  was  there  a  king  like  you,  or  ever  one  half  as  great  j 
I  tell  ye  truth  as  a  regular  thing  and  I  give  this  to  you  straight ! 

You  've  got  a  record  out  of  sight,  you  always  treat  your  people  white, 
And  they  to  honor  you  delight,  O  King  !  most  wise  and  great  !  " 

At  this  ye  monarch  beamed  with  glee ;  "  I  will  not  hear  you  more," 

saith  he, 

"  For  my  great  holt  is  modesty  and  you  have  sung  enough  ! " 
But,  by  request,  "  After  ye  Balle,"  and  "  Ye  Bowerie,"  too,  he  sang  for 

all, 
Until  the  nobles  in  the  halle  cried,  whooping,  "That's  ye  stuff! " 

L' ENVOI 

Ye  moral  of  this  ancient  lay  still  holdeth  good  until  this  day, 

The  which  is  simply  this  : 
That  he  who  for  a  guerdon  sings  must  ne'er  harp  on  unpleasant  things 

To  peasants,  nobles,  knaves,  or  kings  j  and  this  is  true,  I  wis. 


C  89] 


Ye  Artifice  of  Dame  Allyce 

A  Goodlie  Ballade  of  ye  Olden  Times 

Wherein  is  Sette  Forth  Howe  the  Ingenuity  of  Hys  Goode  Ladye, 

in  an  Adverse  Hour,  Didde  Rouse  ye  Slothful  Sir  Bertram  Bevis, 

of  the  Lake,  to  Industrie  and  A6lion 


Listen,  Lordlings,  nubile  ye  may. 
Unto  ye  Bard  <w  ho  sings  a  lay 
Of  happenings  in  an  elder  daye, 

The  <vuhich,  in  sooth,  is  this : 
How,  long  ago,  a  sturdy  knyghte 
Who  didde  in  reckless  ways  delyghte 
Bye  hys  goode  dame  'was  sette  aryghte, 

And  it  is  true,  I  nvis. 

¥ 

SIR  BERTRAM  BEVIS,  of  ye  Lake, 
Unto  hymselfe  to  wife  didde  take 

Ye  goode  Sir  Cauline's  daughter. 
And  Dame  Allyce  was  fair  to  see  j 
Shee  could  embroider  daintilee 
And  sampler  work  so  fyne  didde  shee  — 
For  thus  her  mother  taught  her. 

But,  Bertram,  tho'  a  stark  goode  knyghte, 
I-faith,  he  was  a  reckless  wight 
Who  onlie  joyed  in  joust  or  fyghte, 
Or  onne  adventures  sallied. 

[  90  ] 


Heedless  he  passed  hys  tyme  away 

Att  cardes  and  dicing  all  ye  daye 

Or  singing  catches  droll  and  gaye, 

And  o'er  ye  wine-cup  dallied. 

Yette  think  net  in  ye  olden  tymes, 

When  minstrels  sang  and  made  their  rhymes. 

It  was  all  beere  and  skittles. 
Beshrew  me !  Times  to  some  were  tight 
Andy  eftsoons,  many  a  goodlie  knyghte 

Must  hustle  for  his  <vifiuals  ! 

Now  all  ye  joustings  they  were  done  — 
Ye  tournaments  where  fyghte  and  funne 

Had  raged  both  fast  and  furious. 
And  Winter  fell  in  Camelot, 
A  Winter  cold  and  drear,  I  wot. 

No  more  yt  ballad  curious, 
"  Hot  Tyme  in  ye  Towne  To-Nighte ! " 
Was  sung  —  'twas  deemed  injurious. 
And  still  yt  brave  and  parlous  knyghte, 
Sir  Bertram  Bevis,  of  ye  Lake, 
Had  found  it  harde,  indeed,  to  make 

Bothe  endes  to  meete,  if  we  hear  right. 
He  had  laid  bye  a  meagre  store 
Of  sundries  for  ye  Winter  sore, 
And  of  white  monie  he  'd  no  more 

Than  e'en  ye  poorest  churl. 
And  thenne  ye  merchants  didde  hym  dunne 
For  debts  he  owed,  from  sunne  to  sunne, 

And  hym  a  belted  Earl ! 


Ye  while  hys  gentil  ladye  fair — 
May  fate  send  us  her  kind  to  share 
Our  days  of  joy  and  days  of  care  — 

Kept  up  hys  spirits  daily. 
"Soon  will  ye  Winter  cold  pass  bye," 
Quoth  shee,  "  and  Sprynge  will  glad  your  eye  ; 
We  '11  all  be  happy  yette,  you  bette  ! 

So,  keep  in  bounds  of  reason," 
She  saith  with  other  words  of  cheer 
Yt  pleased  hym  muche,  indeed,  to  hear. 
So  passed  the  tyme  till  it  grew  near 

Ye  joyous  Christmasse  season. 
But,  ah  !  they  were  far  in  arrear 
In  payments  on  their  household  gear 
Until,  withe  many  a  threat  and  jeer, 

That  they  myghte  notte  mistake  them, 
This  word  was  sent :  "No  more  delay  — 
Your  household  goodes  instalments  paye 

Or  else  we  '11  come  and  take  them." 

In  vain  ye  goode  Sir  Bertram  strove, 

They  tooke  both  pannes  and  pottes  and  stove, 

Until  ye  knyghte  cried  out,  "  By  Jove  ! 

As  I  'm  a  living  sinner, 
How  will  we  now  have  ought  to  eat, 
How  shalle  we  roast  or  frye  our  meat, 

How  shalle  we  cooke  our  dinner  ?" 

But  still  Dame  Allyce  gave  hym  cheer : 
"  What  do  we  care  for  kitchen  gear  ? 
We  '11  make  out  well,  so  do  notte  fear 
And  do  notte  be  repining. 
[  92  ] 


Take  off  ye  corselet  yt  you  wear, 
Your  goode  steel  hawberk  yt 's  suche  care 
To  keep  all  bryghte  and  shining." 

Hys  corselet 's  set  upon  ye  grounde, 
Ye  steel  yt  saved  from  scar  and  wounde 
Sir  Bertram  oft  j  and  it  was  founde 

A  splendid  stove  to  make. 
Ye  iron  sleeve,  at  ye  elbow  bend, 
Ye  dame  turned  uppe,  yt  it  myghte  send 
Ye  smoak  aloft,  he  saw  her  trend  — 

Saith  he  :  "  You  take  ye  cake  ! " 
Then,  in  hys  helmet,  as  a  disshe, 
Shee  boyled  for  hym  a  goode  salt  fissche, 

And  colewort,  too,  beside. 
Hys  broad  shield  with  its  rounding  curve 
Shee  made  it  as  a  platter  serve  — 

Sir  Bertram  gazed  with  pryde. 
"  Come  weal  or  woe  ! "  he  cryed  amain, 
"  Thou  art  a  dame  worth  while  to  gain, 
And  sore  would  be  my  grief  and  pain 

To  lose  thee  from  my  syde  ! " 

All  is  notte  told  :  yt  afternoon 

Shee  heated  uppe  hys  spur-decked  shoon, 

And  with  it  and  its  mate  she  soon 

Had  all  her  ironing  donne. 
"Then  save  you  fair,  my  gracious  dame  ! 
Sir  Bertram  cryed  ;  "you  putte  to  shame 

Ye  joustyngs  I  have  wonne  ! 
I,  in  yt  suit  of  nickel-plate, 
Have  in  ye  tourneys  tempted  fate, 

[  93  ] 


While  here,  in  suche  a  goodlie  state, 

You  cook  ye  dinner  in  it ! 
A  better  use  for  armor  bryghte 
Than  to  be  worn  by  slothful  knyghte, 
Who  onlie  thought  hym  of  ye  fyghte, 

And  how  to  wage  and  win  it. 

"  Belike,  your  ready  wit  is  suche 

Yt  it,  in  sooth,  doth  shame  me  muche 

To  watch  you  stir  and  bustle. 
Forthwith  I'll  sette  no  more  and  pine 
That  better  fortune  is  notte  mine, 

But  I  "11  gette  out  and  hustle  ! " 

He  didde.  And,  Gentles,  would  you  know  ? 
Ere  Spryngtyme's  flowers  didde  bloom  and  blow, 
Or  yette  had  fell  ye  last  light  snowe  — 

So  well  and  goode  he  strove  — 
Hys  spryghtly  ladye  hadde  her  meed  j 
No  longer  used  shee  in  her  need 

His  corselet  for  a  stove. 
For,  by  his  efforts  goode  and  bolde 
He  brought  hym  in  a  store  of  golde — 
They  left  their  castle,  damp  and  olde  j 

And,  bye  next  Yuletide's  comyng, 
He  reared  a  stately  edifice, 
All  furnished  uppe  with  gear  of  price 

And  sanitarie  plumbyng ! 


The  End 


D.  B.  Updike 

The  Merrymount  Press 

Boston 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


MfiYK     196378' 


ttS 


LD  21A-45m-9,'67 
(H5067slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


Mo  Hardell, 

R.L 

M11O 
0 

Olde   love 

Ai    rrhViftt*    Vfti* 

and   lavende 

S£*  <2 

r 

/    ~7 

^" 

M  3955 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


